


The Bookshop

by TheUniverseIsRarelySoLazy



Series: The Bookshop-verse [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Confessions, Don’t copy to another site, E rating now definitely earned, F/M, Flirting, M/M, Reader-Insert, Romantic Fluff, Self-Indulgent, Two against one, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-06-03 07:38:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19459429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheUniverseIsRarelySoLazy/pseuds/TheUniverseIsRarelySoLazy
Summary: A small Aziraphale/Reader/Crowley story that is entirely self-indulgent and way too sweet.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t like the whole y/n thing so the reader has a name: Hazel.

There is a curious feeling to this book shop. As soon as you step through the door, reality seems to slip away, and when you close it, all noise from the outside ceases. The atmosphere is almost serene. It’s never too hot or too cold in here. It always smells of paper and dust, old wood and ink, with an underlying note of chocolate, since the proprietor is usually found with a cup of hot cocoa somewhere in the recesses of the shop, fussing about one volume or another, or simply lost in a book — if he’s not politely ferrying customers of out the premises for attempting to actually buy a book.

The opening hours are… varied. The sign on the door says: ‘I open the shop on most weekdays about 9:30 or perhaps 10am. While occasionally I open the shop as early as 8, I have been known not to open until 1, except on Tuesday. I tend to close about 3:30pm, or earlier if something needs tending to. However, I might occasionally keep the shop open until 8 or 9 at night, you never know when you might need some light reading. On days that I am not in, the shop will remain closed. On weekends, I will open the shop during normal hours unless I am elsewhere. Bank holidays will be treated in the usual fashion, with early closing on Wednesdays, or sometimes Fridays. (For Sundays see Tuesdays.)’

Hazel opens the door on a sunny afternoon around 4:30pm. With opening hours like that it’s a wonder that she’s never found the book shop closed, no matter when she attempted to visit it. As the door closes behind her, she forgets that she has just made her way through a very crowded Soho and breathes in the smell of old paper she loves so much. The interior is silent, as usual. There are no other customers, as usual. Hazel knows better than to attempt and actually buy a book… and frankly, she doesn’t really want to. There is a couch in the next room, nestled between the shelves, which is the most perfect place to read in the whole universe, if she is concerned.

With light steps Hazel walks through the entrance area, eyeing the selection of stacked books on the round tables, displaying their deep colours and gilded lettering. There are new ones here every day, always a new selection. She wonders how the owner has time to sort them so often. On days where the selection is still the same as on the previous one, she wonders if he is alright. Her heart jumps slightly. He must be somewhere in the shop, if it’s open. The person for whom the word gentleman was invented.

She doesn’t look for him, but rather proceeds to a narrow shelf fashioned out of wood, which is varnished so dark that it looks almost black. Her fingertips glide along the spines until she reaches the one she’s looking for and pulls it out. All books here are hardcover. Hazel had a mild shock when she realised that most of them were first editions. They look almost new. The whole shop must be worth a not only a small, but a rather large fortune… but when she sees the proprietor smile at his collection it feels like it’s worth that much more to him than money.

The couch is a marvellous thing. Dark blue, velvety, just enough spring to be supportive, just enough plush to welcome you. Hazel nestles into the seat and opens her book to continue where she left off the day before. It may be strange to come here and read almost every day, but it’s a routine she has settled into. Something that calms her down so well, something that she looks forward to so much that she works like mad in the mornings so she has time to come here in the afternoon. She gets paid by the word that she edits, so it only matters that she completes enough work, not when she does it. Surprisingly enough there’s always just as much work as she needs and still have time left over to come here and read. Not that she’s complaining.

Hazel is absorbed too much in the plot to realise that she isn’t alone in the room anymore. When she pauses between chapters, she leans back into the cushion with a satisfied sigh and looks up. It’s only then that she sees the owner sitting on the other side of the long room, near the entrance, at his desk. He is clearly working on something, but as if he has eyes in the back of his head, he stops moving his hands shortly after Hazel lays eyes on him and turns around with one of his warmest smiles.

“Hello there,” he says, and even though it’s low, it travels through the calmness of the shop.

“Hello Mr. Fell,” she replies politely. “I’m sorry for borrowing your shop again.”

“One of these days you’ll learn to stop apologising, dear,” he tuts. A pair of small, round glasses is perched on his nose, a brush in his hand. The golden paint twinkles in the sunbeam that penetrates the window behind him. “Anyone who adores books is always welcome here.”

Hazel smiles in response. She doesn’t know how often they have had this particular conversation already. Still, they play it out time and time again. It’s nice to know that one is wanted somewhere, and Mr. Fell seems only too happy to indulge her. He gives her another smile that makes her heart rate speed up slightly and a constricted feeling move up in her chest, as if her breathing was temporarily restricted. Then he turns away again. She sees him dip the brush in a small vial of paint and bend over something to apply it. Probably restoring book covers again, she muses and turns back to her own book.

There is something calming about being in a space with another person without the need for words. Even though they are doing different things, Hazel considers this shared time a treasure. It’s rare to find a person that you can exist in the same space with, without one of you feeling the need to fill the silence with pointless ramblings. Mr. Fell seems like a person with such an inner calmness and confidence that none of his words are ever wasted. She likes that about him. A lot.

Hazel blinks and stares at the page. She read it while her mind was wandering. Now she has to read the scene again if she has any chance to follow the plot. Strange. Usually she is much more concentrated. Hazel looks up again, but the previously occupied chair is now empty. A thick book is left on the desk, but Mr. Fell is gone. Just when she lets out a slightly melancholic sigh, he enters the room again, carrying two mugs, walking directly towards her. Instinctively she sits up straighter, closes the book with a finger between the pages.

“Would you join me for a cup?” he asks in a jovial voice and holds one out.

“Of course,” she replies readily. It’s not the first time he has offered. It happens rarely enough that it’s still a thrill, though more often recently. “You shouldn’t have gone through the trouble.”

“Nonsense,” he says in a tone that allows no contradiction and sits down gently on the couch on her right. “It’s always better to share life’s simple pleasures.”

Mr. Fell raises his cup — a slim, white one with two angel’s wings as handle — and she toasts with him, grinning like a child at the gesture. The cocoa is just the right temperature, creamy without being too heavy. It’s perfect and she tells him so, which he receives with a delighted thank-you.

“You don’t mind, do you?” he asks as he places his cup on a nearby table and picks up a book himself.

“Of course not. It’s your shop.”

“I would never assume.”

As he opens his own book and settles in, she thinks that this sums him up quite nicely. He would never assume. Is that what makes her feel so welcome and safe here? She looks around for somewhere to place her cup and miraculously finds a small, round side-table to her left, which is perfectly situated. She never noticed it before, but is infinitely glad for it now. She opens her book again, trying not to think about Mr. Fell’s proximity too much, the couch large enough for two people, but not with all that much room between them.

Still, as she reads, she quickly falls back into the book, the world falling away around her. As she reaches a particularly bad part, she releases a huff of breath at the audacity of the characters. Then she hears Mr. Fell chuckle and looks up.

“What are you reading that has you in such an agitated state?” he asks.

“The Woman in White,” she replies.

“Ah, Collins. Always a good choice. You reached the illness scene, then?”

“How do you know?”

Mr. Fell smiles sheepishly. “I may have glanced at your pages earlier.”

“And you still ask me what I read, when you clearly know?”

“I didn’t want to get caught.”

“Very well done,” Hazel says with a laugh, which he joins in. She loves how his eyes crinkle at the edges, laughter lines that are etched into his face, evidence of his joy. “I’ll pretend I didn’t notice.”

“It’s very noble of you to preserve my honour.”

They share a gaze that is entirely too long to be proper, but if he notices, he doesn’t seem to care. His eyes are a strange amalgamation of blue and green, his white-blonde hair tousled as always, mouth a gentle smile. Hazel feels her heart beat faster once more, knows that she should look away, but feels entirely unable to. Her throat constricts slightly as she thinks about what to say.

“Hazel, I—” he starts, but then the door to the shop opens and a young man in a suit enters the premises, asking loudly for the owner.

Mr. Fell looks towards him, then back to her, his eyes curiously sad for a moment. Then he reaches out and places his hand over hers, a temporary, fleeting contact that sets her skin on fire. They have only ever touched once before, by accident. This seems more than intentional. With an apologetic smile he stands and walks away.

Hazel can only stare after him, her mind somehow blank, nothing existing beyond the tingling on her skin and the man she watches explaining how no book in this shop is actually for sale.


	2. Chapter 2

“Well, that was unnecessary…” Mr. Fell huffs as the door closes behind the confused customer.

“This is a shop,” Hazel says from where she’s still seated on the couch. “A shop usually sells its inventory.”

“How very pedestrian,” Mr. Fell shakes his head, then—after a moment’s hesitation—reaches for the sign on the door and turns it around. “I better close up so we’re not interrupted again, if that’s alright with you.”

Hazel swallows. What is this? Not interrupted? What is happening?

“You can close the shop whenever you like,” she answers diplomatically. “It’s yours.”

“Quite right,” Mr. Fell replies and tugs first on his jacket, then his bow tie, as if they had come completely undone during his interaction with the unlucky customer. 

He glances at Hazel, then at the back of the shop. Finally he walks over again. Instinctively Hazel’s hands grasp the book she is holding a bit closer.

“If you would like… I got a new book yesterday. It’s a popular Victorian novel, first edition too. I know how you like your Victorians…” he more rambles than explains. “Would you like to be the first to see it?”

A shy blush colours his face. Could it be? Hazel swallows. She has entertained some thoughts about the gentle shopkeeper for a while, but it has never seemed like he was interested in her beyond being friends. With anyone else it would worry her to be locked away alone in a shop, but she had never felt anything but a gentle warmth from this special person and the prospect somehow excites her. Hazel places the bookmark into her Collins and closes the book. 

“Of course,” she says with a smile.

Mr. Fell beams — there’s no other word to describe it. The nervous energy on his face dissipates into a radiant smile as he holds out a hand, which Hazel takes to get up from the couch. His fingers are soft, but his grip is strong and Hazel doesn’t feel like letting go, so she doesn’t. Mr. Fell doesn’t seem to mind. He lets his thumbs glide over her skin once, then turns and tugs her along into the back of the shop.

As they reach a door that is slightly ajar, he pushes it open completely, then releases Hazel’s hand to put it in the small of her back and gently guides her into the room. Hazel almost forgets to breathe. His fingers feel hot, even through the cloth. He must notice her agitation, somehow, she thinks. As the door falls close behind them she looks back and meets his eyes, which shine with such joy, that all her nervousness falls away.

“Over here,” he says and moves on, passes her, hands brushing.

The room is bigger than one would expect from the back office of a bookshop. It’s airy and bright, even though there’s only one window. The light seems to come from everywhere — a golden glow that reminds Hazel of a sunset over the ocean. With its overflowing shelves, stacks of books and countless crates, knick-knacks on every surface, the room looks like there’s a spell cast on it, taking all the disorder of the shop onto itself, so that the front rooms might never be messy. Hazel loves it.

Mr. Fell seems to notice that. A soft, pleased hum escapes him as she joins him at the table, and he unwraps the volume that is situated on a stack of brown manila folders. It’s a rather thick book with a black and white cover. Hazel bends over the volume that is slightly frayed at the edges, looking more like a well-used telephone book.

“The Mystery of a Hansom Cab…” she mumbles as her finger dares trace the title, feeling the coarse paper, reading the words on the cover. “A sensational Melbourne novel?”

“Not many people know this, but one of the most successful Victorian mystery novels was indeed Australian,” Mr. Fell says with that bit of pride in his voice that is always audible when he shares his often obscure knowledge of literature. Sometimes his stories almost sound like he has been there…

“That’s amazing,” Hazel whispers. “Can I… I mean, may I read it once it’s restored? I can get a current version, but—”

“Nonsense. You shall read the original, my dear,” Mr. Fell cuts her off.

It isn’t unusual for him to call her pet names. Only now it feels more intimate than ever before, as they are not only alone, but cut off from the world through closed doors and polite signs. She could leave, sure, but why would she want to? Hazel doesn’t look up as she continues talking, suddenly too shy to meet Mr. Fell’s gaze.

“You didn’t just invite me here to show me this book?” she asks, voice wavering, hands on the edge of the table, grasping at the polished wood.

“I admit I had an ulterior motive, yes,” Mr. Fell says and just like that Hazel feels his hand on her back, between her shoulder blades, a steadying touch that nevertheless unsettles her. “And I would’ve never asked you here if I couldn’t sense a similar motive from you.”

Hazel turns slowly.

“Mr. Fell…” she breathes.

“It’s Aziraphale, my dear. My actual name.”

If Hazel had been a bit more clear headed, she would’ve made the connection between the name on the store sign and the actual name, but as it stands she can simply stare slightly dumbfounded. They are of a similar height, Aziraphale just half a head taller. She stares into his eyes, which seem to be blue, green and silver at the same time. He tentatively puts a hand on her face, fingers touching her ever so lightly, searching her expression. When she smiles, he looks like he has just eaten a particularly satisfying meal and Hazel can’t help but giggle.

“May I kiss you?” he asks, thumb brushing over her ear.

Hazel nods. Aziraphale doesn’t crowd her against the table, just holds her lightly, one hand now in her hair, one on her hip. When their lips meet it’s sweet, almost innocent. Hazel more feels than sees the room light up impossibly, and it seems like it’s Aziraphale himself, who is shining. His lips are impossibly soft and she chases them as he draws back after a moment, deepening the kiss once more, her arms now around him, digging into the cream-coloured jacket. Aziraphale gasps in surprise as she leans into him, and soon Hazel’s face is buried in his shoulder as they hold each other close.

“So nice…” he says. “I don’t deserve that much love, but I’ll take it.”

“I… How?” Hazel stammers, but he simply holds her closer. “How do you know…?”

“It bleeds out of you, my dear. With every breath. It’s beautiful. I feel so incredibly honoured you would choose an old being like me to love like this.”

Hazel is equal parts confused, embarrassed and happy. She feels like there is something there that doesn’t quite—

“Aziraphale!” a voice calls out, booming from the shop. “Are you there? Don’t hide, I can sense you!”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale says and Hazel has never heard his voice like that before. “Excuse me, my dear. There’s an old friend here, who has been on a long journey.”

Hazel looks up into his eyes, and how could she not excuse him when he looks like he’s bursting with joy. It’s absolutely precious. She leans into him and kisses him once again—just because she can. He presses his forehead to her’s for a moment and smiles.

“You stay here, won’t you? You can have a look at everything, if you like. I’ll be right back.”

“Sure,” she answers and he is off.

Hazel looks at the door. There are two options now. She could stay like she promised, or she could eavesdrop. After a hesitation of about two seconds she walks up to the door and opens it just a fraction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still good? <3


	3. Chapter 3

Holding her breath, Hazel puts an ear to the crack in the door. She isn’t supposed to listen, but can you blame her after what has just happened? Somehow she thinks she knows the voice that is talking to Mr. Fell… no, Aziraphale, but she can’t place it immediately.

Aziraphale. What a curious name. It suits him, though. It sounds as soft as he is. Hazel wonders how many people know him by that name, and if she’s in any way special. She must be, surely. Definitely. But then again, the newcomer has also called him by that name. She doesn’t exactly frown, but concentrates a bit harder to make out the words that are said in the front of the shop.

“Angel, there you are,” the other man says, and his voice seems happy somehow. Relieved.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale answers just as warmly. There is a pause that could’ve been a hug. “You still smell like space.”

“It’s hard to get the endless void out of your clothes, even with a miracle. What have you been up to?”

“Oh, this and that…” Aziraphale responds. “Tending to the shop—”

“No, no, no. Don’t lie to me. I can see it in your eyes.”

There’s a moment of silence, in which Hazel imagines the two men look at each other, then Aziraphale sighs loudly enough for her to hear it in the back of the shop.

“I make a simple trip to the moon, am not even away for more than two months, and you already get yourself another pet? Can’t I leave you alone for even a moment?” the man apparently called Crowley growls, but he sounds exasperated rather than angry.

“Not a pet. A companion,” Aziraphale says lowly. “And do keep your voice down. She could hear you.”

“She? That’s rare. I thought you went for men nowadays. Or rather you did for the last two or three centuries.”

“Well, I see no reason to limit myself. I can’t help who catches my eye,” Aziraphale says quietly.

Hazel’s grip on the doorframe has not relaxed—on the contrary. This is playing out like a normal conversation between two old friends, yes. But every now and then there are certain words and phrases, said with such normalcy by the two men, that throw her off completely. Moon? Centuries? Smell of space? Something in the back of her head shouts alarm, but she feels rather more intrigued than frightened. How could she ever be frightened by that gentle shop owner?

“So, do I fuck off for a few decades, then? There are a few nebulas I’d quite like to explore…”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Crowley. There’s no need for you to leave. There never has been. You know I love you.”

Hazel’s heart beats impossibly faster. Her hand slips accidentally and pushes on the door, which opens with a creak that seems louder than it is in the relative quiet of the shop. She looks up, eyes wide, to see the two men stand near the entrance, both looking at her in turn. Next to Aziraphale is a man who couldn’t be a better polar opposite. He is tall and lanky, wears dark clothes and sunglasses, his red hair is spiked. So that’s Crowley. Hazel has seen him before, in passing. He has never lingered in the shop when she was there.

“There’s no accounting for taste,” Crowley says, arms crossed.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale counters him. “Don’t be rude.”

“No, don’t get me wrong. I would. Just not my first choice.”

Aziraphale throws up his hands. He shoots Crowley a glare and waves for Hazel to join them. She hesitates—understandably—but in the end she can’t resist. No matter how weird, how fantastical the situation, she is first and foremost curious. As she walks she is aware of Crowley’s appraising stare, a heavy weight despite his glasses. He seems a bit protective of his friend, leaning towards him, maybe even unintentionally.

As Hazel joins them, Aziraphale reaches for her hand and gives it a small squeeze, accompanied with an encouraging smile. Crowley looks back and forth between them.

“Did you tell her yet?” he asks.

“I have barely started—”

“Ah, my apologies. Going to wave all of this away later, then?”

Aziraphale seems to ponder these words that Hazel doesn’t completely understand.

“Wave all of this away?” she asks, the first thing she’s said to Crowley.

“That’s not for me to decide, pet,” the tall man answers and puts a hand under her chin to tilt it up. Hazel isn’t sure about this, but decides to allow it. Something behind his sunglasses glints in the low light of the sun, which has begun to sink below the horizon, shining its rays through the front door window.

“It… is,” Aziraphale admits. “Partially.”

“Why’s that?” Crowley asks, still staring into Hazel’s eyes.

“I was intending to share…” he whispers.

Both Hazel and Crowley snap their head around, staring at the unassuming, soft man next to them, who has just uttered something fantastical in a regular expression. Hazel feels a shiver running through her body, goosebumps breaking out. Her eyes are wide as they meet Aziraphale’s and he gives her a smile that is part encouraging, part apologetic.

“Oh, angel. You shouldn’t have,” Crowley grins. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

Hazel balls her hands to fists, then faces them with a determined stare, which isn’t angry, but could be described as miffed.

“You’re both taking two steps back now,” she says. “And then you’ll explain just what it is that’s going on here, or I’m leaving.”

Aziraphale looks properly spooked. He looks towards Crowley, slightly helpless at first, but then shakes his head imperceptibly and seems to gather himself, tugging on his jacket once or twice.

“Alright, my dear. Would you like to sit down for this?” he offers and gestures towards the couch.

“If you think that necessary.”

“Oh, he does,” Crowley says with a smirk. He walks over first, slumps down on one side of the couch and spreads himself out like he owns the place. “Come here. I always enjoy this part.”

Hazel swallows, but proceeds regardless of the uneasy feeling that sits in her stomach. A few minutes ago the world had seemed so bright, now it seemed to be wrapped in twilight. She glances at Crowley as she takes her place next to him. It’s impossible to sit down without touching him, as he somehow takes up more physical space that is possible for his thin body. Hazel decides to accept this fact and looks up to face Aziraphale once more, who has drawn up a chair himself, sitting in front of them, hands clasped in his lap, fidgeting slightly.

“I wanted to wait a bit until this part, but alas, my hands are forced,” he says with a glance at Crowley, who just shrugs and makes a non-committal humming noise. “Alright, here goes nothing.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Do you believe in God?”

“No, no, angel! You can’t start like that!” Crowley immediately interjects. “This isn’t a question about belief for her anymore.”

Hazel frowns. This isn’t at all what she expected—if she has indeed expected anything at all. She thought she knew Aziraphale. But then again, she didn’t know his actual name until about fifteen minutes ago.

“Maybe this was a bad idea…” she mumbles.

“Please, let me at least finish?” Aziraphale pleads, and with those eyes, how can she say no?

“Just don’t ask her about believing in God,” Crowley says again. “I know She exists—or has existed at some point in the past, at least—but I don’t exactly believe in Her anymore, either.”

“Your case is entirely different, Crowley. Humans are supposed to believe,” Aziraphale counters.

“Yes, but only because they don’t know the truth. You’re about to change that any second now.”

“What in the hell are you talking about?” Hazel demands to know.

“Not in hell, my dear. In heaven,” Aziraphale tuts. “But there’s the core of it. Crowley’s right… it doesn’t actually matter if you believe in God. She’s there, take my word for it. She talked to me, back then, when it all started. Not in a long time since, though…”

“Excuse me, but are you out of your mind?”

Crowley laughs, and it is definitely an amused laugh. “Go on, angel.”

“I know it’s hard to trust anything I’m saying without proof. So, yes. He may use it as a pet name sometimes,” Aziraphale says and nods in Crowley’s direction. “But I am, in fact, an angel. A principality, to be precise. On earth to guide the humans, so to say.”

Hazel opens her mouth to say something—anything—in the face of such outrageous proclamations, but then a gust of wind hits her that smells of sunshine and ozone and the room is filled out with two large, pure white wings, which fan out behind Aziraphale. Hazel feels like fainting for a spell, sways in her seat. Crowley’s hands are immediately at her shoulders, steadying her. She can’t look away, but she can’t exactly comprehend what she sees either.

“It’s alright,” Crowley murmurs, mouth next to her ear. “You’re not hallucinating. Take your time.”

He sounds gentle, somehow. Understanding. Hazel wants to look at him, see his expression, but she can’t take her eyes off Aziraphale. The… angel (it hasn’t quite sunk in yet) is fidgeting on his chair, a frown on his face, which is so joyful at other times. Hazel breathes in deeply. Somehow she doesn’t want him to look sad, so she closes her eyes for a moment, tries to settle herself and then opens them again to take in the picture that presents itself.

No, not a picture. Reality, her mind supplies. She puts a hand on Crowley’s leg and mutters a quick thank-you, before she comes to stand on shaky legs. Aziraphale hasn’t moved, but his wings sway slightly, as if they’re catching an invisible breeze.

“Can I…?” she wants to say, but it comes out as a hoarse whisper, like her voice is failing alongside her mind.

“Sure,” Aziraphale answers.

His wings bend forward slightly, towards Hazel’s outstretched hand. As the tip of a feather brushes her skin, she recoils in shock, as if she didn’t expect it to actually be real. Aziraphale doesn’t react much, he just smiles and patiently waits for her to recover. This time she reaches out herself, fingers cautiously gliding over the largest feathers. She has touched a crow before, and it feels remarkably similar, only somehow smoother, lighter. Feeling a bit bolder, she walks a few steps and places the palm of her hand on the middle of Aziraphale’s left wing, lets it rest there, feeling the weight, the reality of it.

“Angel…” she breathes, more to herself, to make it real by speaking it out loud.

“I am,” Aziraphale confirms nonetheless. “Are you afraid?”

Hazel looks into herself. “Not afraid. A bit confused, rather.”

He nods. “Take your time.”

Hazel’s eyes fall on Crowley, who is watching her with interest, slumped once again on the couch. She is now standing behind Aziraphale’s chair, looking directly at him.

“Feels nice, doesn’t it?” Crowley asks and Hazel can only nod. “Try the down near his back.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaims, but Hazel’s hands are already digging into the soft down, which feels—for a lack of a better word—heavenly. As her hand closes around the soft feathers, she feels Aziraphale jolt, hears him gasp. Immediately she draws her hand back.

“Sorry! Did I hurt you?”

“On the contrary…” Crowley laughs. “He enjoys it too much. I usually hold him there when we—”

“Crowley!!” Aziraphale shouts, his wings briefly lashing out. “That’s enough!”

“If you want to artificially draw this out, be my guest. I’ll be waiting for an invitation. And make it soon.”

Hazel watches him rise to his feet so smoothly that it looks like he isn’t encumbered by bones at all, then does a mock-salute and disappears into thin air.

“I… How…??” Hazel stammers.

“Crowley has similar powers to mine,” Aziraphale explains readily.

“He doesn’t look like an angel.”

Aziraphale huffs a little laugh. “That’s because he’s a demon.”

“I think I need to sit down.”

“Come here, my dear,” Aziraphale replies and suddenly they’re both seated on the couch. His wings have disappeared again. He looks, for all that’s worth, like a human again, though Hazel still sees a light surrounding him. He puts his hand on hers, stroking lightly along her arm with two fingers.

“Am I still allowed to kiss you?” he asks sheepishly.

“Depends. Tell me why I’m here.”

“You like books too much.”

Hazel has to laugh despite herself. “No, silly. Why did you… make a move? Tell me all of this? I mean, not that I believe any of this yet. Maybe in a few days it’ll catch up to me.”

“Human love is dangerously addictive…” Aziraphale says and lets his finger swirl over the skin of Hazel’s palm. “I simply can’t resist it.”

She swallows. “Then—”

“Don’t get me wrong, my dear. I really am quite fond of you. I would’ve never approached you otherwise.”

“What Crowley said… you’ve done this before?”

“Ah, I can’t wiggle out of that one, can I? Very well,” he says and clears his throat. “I’ve always been closer to humanity that I have technically been allowed to. Sometimes a human, like you, chooses to love me, and I want to cherish them in turn. This has happened… several times, since the beginning.”

“The beginning?”

“The day Adam and Eve were evicted from the garden.”

“You’re not—”

“You’ve seen my wings. Doesn’t that give my words the weight they need?”

Hazel shakes her head. “It’s just so…”

“Mhmm…” Aziraphale agrees. “It is. May I kiss you?”

“I think so,” Hazel mumbles.

“Thank you, my dear,” he replies and leans in, both hands on her shoulders, their lips meeting again.

Several minutes later Hazel opens her eyes, panting. Aziraphale has moved over to straddle her, now sitting across her lap. In her peripheral vision she sees his wings spread out. It’s fantastical and somehow instead of feeling confused, Hazel simply feels grateful. Appreciated. Not many people must know this about Aziraphale, if any. She reaches over his shoulder to touch the feathers once more. Aziraphale indulges her, leaning closer to embrace her, one head on her shoulder.

He hums contently as Hazel gently caresses his wings, fingers gliding through the feathers, straightening them. Emboldened, Hazel inches closer to the soft down, where the wings meet his back and digs her fingers into it.

This time there’s no mistake. Aziraphale’s body arches towards her and the sound he releases is definitely a moan.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is the part where we almost earn the rating.

“Hazel…” Aziraphale hisses, groaning when she moves her fingers once more. Her body starts to heat up even further as she feels him move above him. He looks slightly pained when their eyes meet, but she thinks it serves him right for springing all of this on her.

“Aren’t angels supposed to be… I don’t know. Pure?”

“Is there anything purer than expressing your love?” Aziraphale asks and starts to dot Hazel’s face with kisses, holding her head in both hands. “We express our worship through love.”

He wraps them in his wings, like a cocoon, shielding them from the outside world. Hazel lets her hands glide under his jacket, settles them on his waistcoat. He lets out a happy noise when she turns her head so their lips meet again.

“Your love is delicious, my dear,” he sighs.

Hazel has to laugh despite herself. “You sound like a vampire, feeding off me like that.”

“How curious. Crowley said the same thing to me,” Aziraphale muses. “I suppose I’d rather see myself as a flower, turning towards the light.”

“I don’t know. Vampires can be rather sexy.”

“You and Crowley should compare notes.”

“What are you to each other?”

Aziraphale shrinks back a bit. His mouth curves in a sappy smile.

“We are hereditary enemies, agents of heaven and hell, here to influence humanity to our respective advantage, since the day Adam and Eve left the Garden.”

“I just have to believe you, don’t I?”

“I could tell you stories from the times of Babylon. Maybe it’ll be easier then,” Aziraphale suggests.

Hazel shakes her head. “It’s not that—though that sounds fascinating and I’ll definitely hold you to it. I meant your relationship. It’s obvious you’re more than enemies.”

“Jealous?” he quips, and it’s not quite fair how a bit of mischief lights up his face so adorably.

“Do I even have a right to be?” she sighs.

“A right, yes. A reason, no. We’ve been companions for longer than you can imagine, and will still be after this time is over. But that’s not something that would diminish the feelings I have for you, my dear.”

“So I am just a temporary dalliance for you?” she says, voice shaky, finally able to express what has been swirling in her head.

Aziraphale sighs and for a second she feels the age of this strange being that straddles her lap. Feels the weight of having been alive for more than six thousand years.

“Everything is temporary for me. Let me ask you this, Hazel… If you see a beautiful flower, do you not enjoy it, even though you know its bloom will be over in mere days? Do you not share your world with creatures that have far shorter live spans than humans and love them like your own children? Is something less valuable, just because it will exist only for a brief amount of time? Or do you love it more fiercely for it?” Aziraphale’s eyes swim with unshed tears as he talks, his hands on Hazel’s shoulders, thumb brushing over the skin of her neck. “Yes, your life is incredibly short compared to mine, but because of that I value the time you choose to spend with me so highly. It’s an honour to be loved. Believe me, please.”

“Loved by a human, or loved by me?” she whispers.

“By you, my darling,” Aziraphale laughs. “Uniquely you.”

Hazel releases a shaky breath. “That’s all entirely too philosophical for me.”

“Too much?”

“Way too much, angel.”

Aziraphale’s laugh is amused and melodical. His eyes crinkle as his face lights up.

“How about we leave everything heavy for tomorrow and just enjoy ourselves today?”

As the tension melts out of her—it’s amazing what a bit of denial can do to the mind—Hazel realises the situation she still is in. No matter if the man on her lap is actually an angel… he is in her lap! Has kissed her senseless earlier! Hazel swallows as she realises that her hands are still on his waist and an idea pops into her head.

“Can I see your wings? I mean…” she blushes and her fingers tighten. “Without the clothes?”

“Hazel…”

“Bad idea?”

“No bad ideas here. I want to indulge you in everything you desire. You’ve earned it.”

Hazel is pressed back into the couch, Aziraphale’s body flush against her, lips meeting once again. She moans when their tongues meet and he grinds against her. There is suddenly no question about the angel’s enthusiasm anymore. Maybe this is going to fast. Maybe she shouldn’t be here at all after everything she’s learned, but she can’t help it. She can’t help but love this maddening angel, this impossible being… no matter who he is attached to and where he has been. He’s here now, in her arms, and she won’t let him go.

Her conviction seems to bleed out of her as Aziraphale smiles against her mouth.

“Alright,” he says, more to himself.

He detaches himself slightly, leaning back to shrug off his jacket, lets it fall to the floor, but it miraculously ends up folded on a nearby table. Hazel’s fingers brush over the fob medallion as Aziraphale opens his waistcoat.

“Angel wings. A bit on the nose, isn’t it?” she asks, observing how the light is glinting on the polished gold.

“Well, only if you know,” Aziraphale shrugs. “There’s a certain thrill to hiding in plain sight.”

Soon both waistcoat and shirt have followed the jacket. Aziraphale isn’t as tall or lanky as his demon friend—he’s soft in all the right ways. Hazel lets her hands roam over creamy white skin, feels Aziraphale leans into her touch, eyes closed, humming contently. Then he shows her a conspiratory smile and flaps his wings once, standing up without so much a visible effort. He turns on the spot, so Hazel can observe his back.

The wings emerge roughly where his shoulder blades are, looking for all intents and purposes completely natural. For a second she wonders how they could’ve been visible before, without disturbing his clothes at all—and how he could even take them off for that matter—but it’s honestly one of the lesser weird things that has happened that day, so she’s happy to let it slide.

Aziraphale is relaxed when she puts her hand flatly between the wings on his back, feels his muscles flex when he rustles the feathers a little.

“Can… can you fly with them?”

“Rarely.”

“Why not?”

“I guess I just like to be human,” Aziraphale answers with a shrug.

Hazel lets her fingers glide over the top of the wing, tracing it from the shoulder blade over the highest point, down to the wing tip. Aziraphale looks at her over her shoulder. His face is slightly coloured, but he doesn’t say anything. Hazel swallows. She brings both hands up to the place where the wings meet Aziraphale’s back and places them into the fluffy down. He releases a sharp breath at the feeling, his body tensing in anticipation.

Then she digs her fingers in and he cries out—they collapse on the floor together, he sinking to his knees, she right behind him. Hazel can’t resist when she hears Aziraphale panting, and continues to move her finger, stimulating the area, the fantastical wings quivering under her touch, his body following soon after.

“Hazel,” a voice says, and it isn’t Aziraphale.

She looks up to see Crowley towering over them. Slowly he reaches for his sunglasses to take them off—the yellow, slitted eyes emerging that shine with a fire that threatens to consume her. He smirks. It’s a lopsided grin that is amusement and challenge in one.

“Come on,” he says and his voice is husky. “Make him come.”


	6. Chapter 6

Crowley flops down on the couch, legs wide, arms spread over the backrest. His face is open, interested, hungry. He wears a smile that could be called cruel, but Hazel sees it as the challenge it is. Aziraphale looks up from where he’s kneeling, hands on the floor, and Hazel feels the moment his eyes meets Crowley’s, as the muscles under her hands tense up.

“Zira,” Crowley murmurs. “Give me a show, there’s a good boy.”

Aziraphale moans, shivering. Crowley reaches out with a long leg, and Hazel sees him press his foot between the angel’s legs.

“Fuck,” Aziraphale breathes, rutting forward, pressing back and Crowley’s eyes shine, the yellow flaring orange.

Hazel takes it as her cue and digs her fingers in the skin on Aziraphale’s back, where the wings meet the flesh. The muscles are thicker here than in a regular human, and Hazel feels them work as the wings flutter. It’s fantastical, but also very real in the way Aziraphale moans and pants under her ministrations. She feels incredibly aroused herself, but is happy to have herself take a backseat for the moment. The way Crowley’s pants tent, he seems to be in very much the same situation. Still, they seem to be in agreement that Aziraphale like this is worth all the discomfort.

Crowley makes a motion with his hands and just like that the angel is completely naked, gasping at the sudden change, hands grasping the carpet. Hazel swallows thickly. She looks down to where Crowley’s shoe appears repeatedly between Aziraphale’s legs, as he’s rutting against it. Then she looks up to meet the demon’s eyes. They are hooded, hungry still. The lopsided smirk on his lips shows that he’s definitely enjoying himself.

“Tell me what to do. I want to… make it good,” Hazel says.

“Oh, good. Very good,” Crowley says. “You chose well, angel.”

Aziraphale just whimpers, moving his hips. His thoughts seem occupied elsewhere, his mind now with a single focus. The flush on his face has wandered down his body, colouring it slightly pink and oh, so very appealing. Hazel understands now why there are so many lovely songs about angels, why the very word is an endearment, and she hasn’t even seen his face in the throes of passion yet—though she hopes that will happen soon enough.

“Use your lovely lips. Bite his neck while stroking the feathers. He’s almost there.”

Hazel does as she’s told. Aziraphale’s skin tastes of sweat, slightly salty, but also so very clean and sweet, like honey and oranges. She moans at the fire that the taste ignites in her and somewhere, far away she hears Crowley laugh lowly. Oh, he must know how his angel tastes, surely? But Hazel doesn’t feel jealous. She doesn’t need to. She’s allowed to share and she’s intent on having her fill. With both hands in the feathers, she licks along Aziraphale’s neck, nibbling, biting everywhere. The angel is positively vibrating underneath her.

“Oh… oh… yes… Hazel…” he moans. “Yes… please… oh…”

“Dirty my shoes, angel. I know you want to,” Crowley drawls above them. “Come all over them. Make it pretty.”

Just then Hazel bites down in earnest and Aziraphale does just as he’s told. He gasps and convulses, crying out, wings flaring. Hazel can’t hold on to the feathers as they move with such force, wind building, knocking some books off the shelves, but she does hold onto his waist, mouth still at his neck. Aziraphale whimpers as he continues to rut against Crowley’s foot. The air smells of sunshine and ozone… and sex. Hazel is positively hazy right now, holding on to the angel for dear life. His arousal had already infected her, but his release had been like a powerful wave of pleasure rushing through her body. She feels lightheaded, sways a little—and is frankly only a little surprise when Crowley suddenly appears behind her, holding her upright in his arms.

As they kneel together, they both see Aziraphale collapse on the carpet. His wings disappear as he rolls over, mouth still open and panting, eyes staring at the ceiling in a blissed out expression. His face is red from exertion, his cock spent, but still twitching here and there.

“God, he’s beautiful…” Hazel whispers and hears Crowley chuckle lowly in her ear.

“Not that it’s my place to say it, but I’d be careful with the blaspheming… even though you’re absolutely right.”

“I can hear you, you know,” Aziraphale says from the floor, though he makes no effort to actually get up.

“I hope you can also see us,” Crowley says. “Because I fully intend to have your new companion right here, on your lovely carpet, where you can watch us.”

He faces Hazels and stares into her eyes. “If you’re amenable, that is. Wouldn’t want to do anything to my angel’s chosen one without her consent.”

Hazel swallows. This isn’t at all how she had expected anything to go… but who in their right mind would ever be able to reject such an offer—especially since she’s been ready since Aziraphale’s first moan.

“You have my very explicit consent, demon,” she says, a touch defiantly.

“Now that’sssss what I like to hear,” Crowley hisses and tackles her to the floor.


	7. Chapter 7

Hazel can barely realise what’s happening before Crowley has pinned her wrists to the floor. The carpet somehow feels a lot softer than before, enveloping her comfortably. He straddles her hips, rutting against her a few times for good measure.

“He’s kissed you already, hasn’t he?” Crowley says and his eyes spark with interest and mischief.

Hazel nods. She can’t see anything but Crowley’s face now, can’t seem to look anywhere else. His eyes draw her in. They’re unnatural, frightening, if you stop and think about it, but she feels intrigued rather than scared—and doesn’t exactly want to analyse that right now.

“Then you won’t take much objection if I do the same?”

“Please…” Hazel says, suddenly sure she’d be dying if she isn’t kissed right now.

She had expected him to be rough and fast, but when their lips meet it’s a soft and wonderful thing that makes her whole body first tingle, then relax. Aziraphale kisses like he wants to possess her. Crowley kisses like he wants to worship her. It’s exactly what she needs right now, bringing her down from the tense high that was the energy of Aziraphale’s orgasm, and she melts into Crowley as he lets her hands go. They wrap up into each other, an embrace that can’t be closer, legs tangled as they roll sideways on the floor.

Crowley is all limbs and angles and long fingers and desperate huffs of breath. He smells of hot metal and fire. He catches her smelling his clothes and chuckles, the deep noise going right between her legs in a way she hadn’t expected.

“It’s impossible to get space out of your clothes. I’m going to have to replace them.”

“Space?” Hazel blinks.

“I spent a few weeks walking over the moon. It’s very quiet and very relaxing,” he says and moves his lips to her throat, nosing at the overheated skin. “Don’t worry, I didn’t leave any footprints. Wouldn’t want to confuse anyone. Though… there’s this delightful program called Ancient Aliens. They would eat their heartsssss out…”

Hazel wants to ask something, but then Crowley bites her neck, one hand in her hair to draw her head back. Right then he pushes one knee up between her legs and hits her just. there. Hazel gasps and whimpers, fingers digging into Crowley’s jacket. They’re both fully clothed and she feels like they’re overheating.

“You want to undress me,” Crowley whispers into Hazel’s ear.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale admonishes him and Hazel looks over. The angel has propped himself against the couch, sitting upright. “You don’t need to tempt her. She’s already willing.”

“Let me have ssssssssome fun…”

Aziraphale lets out an amused laugh and leaves it at that. Hazel doesn’t know why, but she moves to straddle Crowley, who lets his arms fall open, a smirk on his lips. Hazel puts her hands on his face, caressing his skin, lets them glide down his long neck, then his chest. He pushes into her touch like a cat, eyes closed, hissing slightly. So Aziraphale isn’t the only one weak to pleasure here, Hazel thinks to herself with a grin. She finds his nipples through the dark red shirt and pinches them, apparently much to both of their delight. She can hear Aziraphale draw in a large breath beside her.

“I think you’d rather like to undress me, than the other way around,” Hazel says, her smirk not less demonic than Crowley’s.

“Angel!” he laughs. “Did you thwart my temptation?”

“That’s what we do, don’t we?”

“Oh, alright. I ssssssuppose I can indulge you,” Crowley replies.

He pushes himself up so that Hazel sits in his lap, then makes quick work of her shirt. A few seconds later, the clasp of her bra is unhooked and it falls to the floor. She feels a moment of discomfort—they are still strangers after all—and then Crowley’s mouth is on her breast, kissing the soft skin, licking away the sweat. He fastidiously avoids her nipple, but his touch is hot and perfect anyway. Hazel leans back on her hands, pushes up into his face. Crowley hums in a pleased way, his hands on her back, stroking the skin, holding her close.

It doesn’t take long until they’re back on the floor again, Hazel once more half under Crowley, him plastered to her side, now sucking leisurely on her breast, licking her nipple, while the other hand plays with its sibling. She squirms and gasps under his touch, eyes closed in pleasure.

Then she hears a moan that doesn’t stem from any of them and opens her eyes. Crowley chuckles and turns her head to the left.

“Look at him. Look at what you do to him, an honessssst to good angel of the Lord. He’s so holy, so nice… ssssso pure. Look at him, how he’s descending into lussssst and greed. He just came and he can’t help himself,” Crowley breathes into Hazel’s ear. “Aziraphale can’t resissssst pleasure. When he’s like this he forgetssss all other thingsss.”

Hazel is spellbound by Crowley’s voice. She can’t do anything but stare at Aziraphale, drink in his moans, observe the flush and sweat on his body, stare at his hand where it moves frantically, the mouth open, noises that spill out like sobs. He looks ecstatic, almost like he’s in pain.

She feels the pull that Crowley gives off, the warm waves of something that is dark and deep and lovely in the way they wash over her and the angel. The room reeks of sex now, has gotten incredibly warm. Night has come, and the very air itself seems to glow from the inside out like fire.

“Hazel…” Aziraphale breathes and shudders.

Crowley uses that moment to slip his hand into Hazel’s trousers and directly into her underwear, meeting her wet and swollen folds. He presses down on her clit and she keens. The sound Aziraphale makes in response could almost be called obscene.

“You want to fuck her,” Crowley says. It’s a statement, not a question. Aziraphale whimpers in response. “Let me tempt you, Zzzzira…”

Hazel yelps in surprise as her clothes disappear and the colder air meets her hot centre. Crowley slips two fingers inside her easily, hooking them up just the right way. Hazel twists under the demon’s hands, but he seems to have unearthly strength and keeps her down with what seems to be a light grip.

“Come here,” he says to his angel. “She’s ready for you, aren’t you, sssssweetheart?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the comments! I can write a lot faster if I know that there are people enjoying the show! ;)


	8. Chapter 8

Aziraphale’s hand stills. He swallows audibly.

“May I?” he asks, wonder in his voice.

“Please…” Hazel keens. Crowley is a wholly different treat—which she’d love to sample at a later date—but the idea of Aziraphale in her is too much to handle. “Angel…”

He crawls over to her, positioning himself between her legs. Hazel heaves a deep breath. She is beyond ready for this. But Aziraphale just looks at her for a while, caressing the skin of her thighs, then looks up.

“What about you?” Aziraphale asks, his voice strained, though his eyes are so very soft when he gazes at Crowley with so much love that Hazel can’t bear it.

“Oh, Zira. You know my greatest pleasure is watching you chase yoursssss,” Crowley says and lays one hand on his angel’s face.

“I know. That’s why I wanted to share…”

Aziraphale leans forward, his cock rubbing over Hazel’s sensitive clit and she groans, but then Crowley moves up to meet him. Their kiss is sweet and possessive at once, knowing nudges, smiles and hums. They are more than old lovers. It feels like they have known each other for an eternity, two halves of a whole. As turned on as she is by the display, Hazel also has a moment of doubt flicker through her mind.

“None of that,” Aziraphale says immediately and turns his head towards her. “While you’re here, you’re as much a part of this relationship as we are.”

He nips playfully at Crowley’s lips once more, then leans down to capture Hazel’s. He tastes as sweet as before, only so much hotter. She imagines she can taste Crowley on his tongue. It’s too much. Her hips buck up and she’s too wet to prevent it—Aziraphale’s cock slips partially inside. He gasps at the sudden change, now sporting a grin that is anything but angelic.

“You want it so badly?” he whispers. “Fine. Crowley, would you do the honours?”

“With pleasure.”

Crowley disappears from her side and again at her head. Her arms are drawn up, both held to the floor now. She has little time to contemplate Crowley’s cock, which is now tantalizingly close to her face, because Aziraphale lifts up both her legs at her ankles, drawing himself back a little before pushing in completely.

“Fuck!” Hazel shouts. Her body wants to twist, but the only things that can move are her fingers. It’s easy to forget that they are supernatural beings, but the way they hold her in place clues her in again rather perfectly. Instead of fear, Hazel just feels arousal. She trusts them. Trusts them enough to stop when she says, so there’s no need to overthink it. She lets go completely, moaning like a harlot at Aziraphale’s lazy movements.

Aziraphale sighs and after a moment his wings flare out, shining in the twilight with a holy glow, feathers white and fluffy as a cloud. They bring a warmth that is not unlike sunshine and Hazel feels a rush of endorphins running through her body in a wave. She can’t do anything but lie there and take it, the forceful pushes, the delightful drag, the breeze of the wings. He leans down to bracket her body with his and their lips meet in a kiss that is wet and filthy. She whimpers into his mouth, gasping with every push.

“Come on, Zira. Open up,” a voice says from far away.

Aziraphale pushes himself up on his hands, his thrusts never stopping, and Hazel can watch from below how Crowley’s cock disappears between his lips. He grows impossibly harder inside her, his movements less coordinated. Aziraphale positively devours Crowley. Her hands are now free as Crowley puts his in the angel’s hair and she moves hers up Aziraphale’s arms to hold on to something substantial.

“Yessssss that’ssss it…” Crowley drawls and starts pushing himself into Aziraphale’s mouth, hands clutching his hair. A bit of spit drops down on Hazel’s face and it only turns her on more. She’s been on the edge since Aziraphale had pushed in, and this visual together with their mingled moans proves to be too much. She claws at Aziraphale’s arms, sobbing. Crowley immediately lets go and the angel pops off, looking down at her, a blissful smile on his face.

“Are you close, dear?” he asks and his voice is so soft she feels herself wrapped in cotton wool by it.

“Yessss…” she hisses, sounding suspiciously like Crowley now.

Aziraphale laughs and it’s such a delightful sound, it fills her up with so much joy that it pushes her right over the edge. She convulses under him, walls clenching, arms around his body to get him closer, ever closer as he fucks her through it, every push another small orgasm until she finally, finally relaxes and falls boneless to the floor underneath him.

“Angel,” Crowley warns him and Hazel looks up to see Aziraphale hold out his tongue as the demon paints his face, almost silent as he comes, all low grunts and pleasured hums. In the corner of her eyes Hazel can see something dark and she wonders if they’re Crowley’s wings. A few drops fall down on her cheek and she brings the drops to her lips to taste him.

As Crowley slinks back, Aziraphale speeds up again, chasing his own peak, eyes closed, small huffs of breath and aborted moans. There is no warning before he comes, crying out, loud enough for all three of them. Once again his wings flare out, hitting a few bookshelves and a lamp, which promptly falls over. He presses himself as close as he can, his cock twitching inside her, until he also collapses, right on top of her.

He’s still inside, softening slowly as he kisses her with a sort of desperation she would’ve expected before, but not now when they’re all done. He peppers her face with kisses, licks her skin, murmuring her name over and over and over like in a prayer… Then she feels a hand in her hair and it’s Crowley, who has come to sit on the carpet behind her, smiling down at the pair.

“He gets a little sappy after sex. Well, very sappy.”

“Shut up…” Aziraphale mumbles, his hands in Hazel’s hair, nibbling at her ear.

“I didn’t say it’s a bad thing, love,” Crowley adds and winks at Hazel when their eyes meet.

He does have his wings out, she realises, only they are less visible in the dark room. Black as the night, shining slightly metallic where the light hits them, as she knows it from crows or magpies. They’re beautiful, full and vibrant. Aziraphale’s are just as pretty, only his feathers…

“He never takes time to groom them,” Crowley says as he sees where Hazel is looking. “Take them for granted too much. Even if they’re damaged, they’ll just grow back, he says.”

“I’d love to—”

“Yeah, I’ll show you how. It’ll do him good to have another person looking after him. Lor— Someone knows I’m doing a poor job.”

“You’re perfect, my love,” Aziraphale says as he finally slips out, sitting back.

Crowley just shrugs. Hazel is still on the floor between them, utterly spent, completely naked. An angel and a demon are watching over her, wings spreading out over them like an umbrella. She feels safe here, she realises. A bone deep relaxation and peace has settled over her. Maybe it’s the fact that she just had frankly spectacular sex, maybe it’s the magic they both seem to be able to do. Well, in the end it doesn’t matter. Hazel reaches for both their hands, which they give willingly—Crowley with a soft smile and Aziraphale with a grin.

She has them now and she’s not going to let them go anytime soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't have sex without protection, children! They can do it because they're supernatural and can miracle away any problems, but the same does not apply to you humans!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this as much as I enjoyed writing it! :) Maybe I'll return to the trio in future with another small story. For now I'll leave you with the mental image of all three taking a hike on the moon. ;)


End file.
